It was raining when Littlejohn arrived at Westcombe. The glass had been removed from the roofs of the long station platforms and passengers, encumbered by their baggage, broke into ungainly running, to avoid the waterspouts streaming from the unglazed girders overhead. There were many travelling, although it was mid-week.
The Inspector buttoned his raincoat from top to bottom and turned up the collar. Then, he inverted the bowl of his pipe and, passing through the barriers, reached the open street.
Acres of black-and-white promenade, swept clean of people and shining like a mirror in the rain. Shelters and the doorways of shops crowded with holidaymakers in summer attire wondering what to do. Already some bolder spirits were beginning to brave the elements and forming bedraggled little family processions, intent on reaching hotels or boarding-houses in time for lunch.
Footsteps pattered behind Littlejohn, who turned to face a medium-built man in a dripping waterproof and bowler hat who was hurrying after him.
“Inspector Littlejohn?” said the man, who had a round, tanned face and a small straight nose. He looked fed-up with more than the weather.
“Yes …”
“I recognised you from a photograph I once saw of you … My name’s Hazard. I’m a Detective-Inspector here. I came to meet you off my own bat. Such a thing would never occur to our Chief Constable.”
“That’s good of you, Hazard. I’ve chosen a rotten day to begin.”
They shook hands.
“Yes. Weather’s generally good about this time of the year and needs to be. We get more visitors here than we can cope with indoors in the season. Look at them …”
With a compassionate wave of his hand, Hazard indicated further groups of half-drowned people, clad in flimsy summer wear which clung soaked to their bodies and with grim, even offended looks, as though condemning Westcombe and all in it for a dirty trick.
“Are you on the case then, Hazard?”
“Who? Me? Not likely, Inspector. I’m the Public Morals Squad. Betting, soliciting, touting, indecent behaviour. That’s my little line. I also test the thrills of the pleasure-beach to make sure they’re safe for the holidaymakers. But murder … Oh, dear, no. Nobody but the Chief himself takes charge of such enquiries.”
Littlejohn felt in a dream. A four-hour train journey, and no dining-car. He’d sworn to Letty that the train was marked with an “R” in the time-table, but she’d slipped a substantial packet of sandwiches in his bag all the same. He was as dry as a bone internally, however. Then, to be greeted by rain plastered down one’s front by a howling gale. And lastly, a disgruntled detective to meet him, running down the Chief Constable for all he was worth.
Hazard seemed to divine Littlejohn’s thoughts.
“Had any food, Inspector? I see there was no diner on the train.”
“I brought some sandwiches … but I haven’t had a drink. I could do with one …”
“Come on, then. We’ll soon put that right.”
Hazard piloted Littlejohn to a large new hotel built in red brick.
“Like to have it at the bar … or …?”
“Let’s sit in the window there and take our ease for a bit, Hazard. Then you can tell me what this business is all about.”
“I’ve no standing, you know, Inspector. I can only tell you what I’ve picked up. Hi, waiter! What’ll yours be, Littlejohn? Two pints of lager, then …”
Their table was in a long sun-lounge, looking straight across the deserted promenade to the sea. The windows could be opened in fine weather, making an open-air café of the place. There were not many customers, for it was lunch-time and meals were not served there.
The sea was choppy and the colour of lead. On the horizon, trails of smoke marked the paths of passing coasters. A lighthouse built on metal piles looked like a Meccano model in the far distance. The tide was almost full.
“It’ll probably clear up with the ebb …” said Hazard, and buried his nose in his tankard.
A party of Salvationists, headed by a band and carrying a rain soaked banner, marched past, bravely singing and playing.
When the roll is called up yonder,
I’ll be there!
Their refrain mingled with that of a strident loud-speaker, advertising the wares of a music-shop.
’Twas a night
Of delight,
When I first met you …
When the roll is called up yonder,
I’ll be there!
There was a wild contest of cacophony for a minute or two, until the waiter closed the one window remaining open and shut it out.
“To tell you the truth, I’ve given-in my resignation here,” Hazard was saying. “I’ve got a transfer to Manchester. You see, I’ve two little girls and I don’t want to bring them up in a place like this. It’s a moral sink … Nobody knows better than I do. And there’s no proper life here, you know, except amusing and catering. The season now lasts from March until well in November, with another little spurt at Christmas. Nobody’s any time for anything but the superficial. You get what I mean …?”
“Yes. I think I’d feel the same myself if I’d kids to bring up.”
“Haven’t got any of your own, then?”
“No. We’d a little girl, but she died …”
“I’m sorry … Waiter! … Same again. And bring me a packet of cigarettes.”
“Besides,” went on Hazard, “Chief Constable’s a snorter. A regular time-server, if you ask me. He’s risen from the ranks. Got on the right side of Sir Gideon Ware … the murdered man … and once you did that you were made. Ware pushed his appointment through.”
“A bit unusual, that.”
“Everything’s unusual in the running of this place. It’s all Ware, Ware, Ware. Sir Gideon’s word was law … Well, perhaps now there’ll be a change. I’m not saying that Boumphrey … that’s the Chief … isn’t efficient. He’s damned good at organising. But he’s had no education in anything but police routine. Well, just take your own case. Here you are, a big man from Scotland Yard. You arrive in the rain after Lord knows how many hours’ train-journey. And Boumphrey never thinks of meeting you, or telling anybody else to do it. It isn’t an intentional slight or rudeness. It’s just that he’s no savoir-faire. He wouldn’t expect to be met and welcomed and just hasn’t thought you’d want it.”
“I must confess I was a bit surprised to find nobody there to tell me the way. But it doesn’t matter, so long as we know, does it?”
“No. Not really. But I happened to hear something about your arrival and thought I’d pick you up. Make you feel welcome … WELCOME TO WESTCOMBE, as the posters say. I hope I get a bit warmer reception in Manchester when I go next month.”
“I wish you the best of luck, Hazard. I started there …”
“Did you really, now? Well, there’s hopes for me, then. I suppose you know why they’ve sent for The Yard in this case.”
“I understand it’s a bit involved, the Mayor murdered and all that.”
“Yes, but there’s more to it than that. The murder happened at the Mayor’s banquet and all the big shots of the town were there. They’ve all got to be questioned. So far, the Chief’s spent his time bullying waiters and town-hall attendants. He’s not made a start on the high hats. That’s your job. You see, Boumphrey’s likely to be skating on thin ice when he starts on the bigwigs. He’s not got Ware to protect him anymore and he’s not popular in certain quarters. So, if he keeps out of it,—except when the thing’s solved and there’s kudos flying around, of course—any blame or recriminations will be your pigeon.”
“Yes. I see … Shall we be getting along to the police-station? Probably the Chief’s expecting me.”
They drank up and went out into the rain again. The weather was already improving, as Hazard had prophesied.
The officers did not speak much on the way. Littlejohn felt sure that whatever topic he opened, it would eventually be turned to a discussion of the Chief Constable with whom Hazard seemed thoroug
hly disgusted. In fact, the man was positively disloyal, even infringing the rules of discipline in his views on his chief. He must be almost at the end of his tether. Littlejohn wondered what exactly Boumphrey was like. He had not long to wait, for the police headquarters were just down a side street off the promenade and about two hundred yards from the hotel.
“Don’t mention my meeting you to the Chief,” said Hazard, as he left the Inspector at the enquiry-desk. “He might suddenly realise that he’s given an exhibition of bad manners and get peeved with me. I’ve another month still to go, and he might take it out of me … See you again!”
The Chief Constable rose with outstretched hand as Littlejohn was ushered into his presence.
“Glad to meet you, Inspector. Had a safe journey? I heard that Hazard had met you at the station … Always get to know these things, you know. Boumphrey’s my name. Expect you’ve heard of me.”
Boumphrey seemed to think that his name had spread with the fame of Westcombe, blazoned over thousands of hoardings all over the country!
“Yes, sir. Glad to meet you, too. A most awkward time for an affair like this; right in the middle of the season, eh?”
“Yes. A very awkward time. And a very awkward victim, too. Has Hazard told you all that happened?”
“No, sir. He was more concerned with finding me something to quench my thirst. There was nothing on the train in that line. Hazard and I weren’t long together.”
“H’m. He’s leaving us at the end of the month. Doesn’t like the seaside apparently. Seems to think Westcombe’s a bit common. So he’s going to Manchester. No accountin’ for taste, eh? Well, you’ve not come here for the life-story of Hazard. Let’s get to business. Like another drink of somethin’ before we start? “
“No, thanks. I’d like the full story and then to get down to work right away.”
“I ought to tell you first that we’ve fixed you up at the best hotel in the place. The Grand. At the Corporation’s expense. A place like Westcombe knows how to treat its guests.”
“Thanks very much … I’m sure I’ll be quite comfortable there.”
“Have anything you like, within reason. Now to business. You know the Mayor’s been poisoned. We haven’t a properly equipped pathological department here, so His Worship’s innards have gone to the Home Office. Our official surgeons, however, provisionally report death from strychnine.”
“Strychnine, eh? Nasty death!”
“Yes. He died during the annual lunch given by the Mayor to the Corporation officials. Collapsed right in the middle of a speech, proposing a toast to our guests. And he was surrounded more or less at the time by men who detested him and with whom, for the most part, he’d recently quarrelled.”
“Was he a difficult man to get on with?”
“I’ll say he was. He was self-made and ruthless. His big idea was to put Westcombe, and himself, properly on the map. Anyone who ran counter to his aim … well … he just rode over ’em roughshod, that’s all. He’d some queer ideas … you might almost call it a malicious sense of humour, except that he wasn’t a humourist. No … I’d say rather, that he did queer things just to show he was his own master and nobody could push him around.”
“I see.”
“You will see when you get going with the case. That’s where my difficulty comes in. As I’ve said, all those present at the luncheon were town officers, magistrates, Town Clerk, Borough Treasurer … you know what I mean. The ones who were closest to Sir Gideon, that’s the late Mayor … Sir Gideon Ware … the ones who were nearest to him were the big shots of the place. And it’s difficult for me to go bald-headed for any of them. I’ve my position here to think about after the crime’s solved and done with and … well … it’s a bit awkward.”
“I understand.”
“Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not a coward. I’ll tackle any of ’em. But they’re a queer crowd of cusses and need a tactful approach. The prestige of Scotland Yard and a man like yourself will make ’em open-up better than to me. They’ve to live with me after this thing’s blown over. You’ll go back to London and be forgiven and forgotten. See?”
In other words, thought Littlejohn, I’m to pull your chestnuts out of the fire. Well, it won’t be the first time.
“I’m at your service, sir.”
“That’s the stuff! Any help you want, count on me, of course. Well, to begin with, here’s a list of the guests and I’ve had a plan drawn to show where they were all sitting when the tragedy happened.”
He passed a sheet of drawing-paper across the table. It was a well-finished piece of work and gave a bird’s-eye view of the scene of the crime.
“Thanks. That’ll be very useful. As regards those involved. Have any of them been interviewed yet?”
“A few. Not the main characters, though. I’m leaving those to you, as I said. You’ll bring a fresh mind to ’em. My men, of course, are after the source of the strychnine … The Home Office report should be here tomorrow or the day after. That will throw light on the whole problem. Meanwhile, we assume that somebody gave Ware poison. How, we don’t know till we get a proper medical report. Might have been in the wine, or the food, or anything.”
“Perhaps we’d better go through the likely suspects and consider their chances of poisoning the victim. What about the food and drink?”
“No good. Every dish eaten and everything drunk by the Mayor was in the common pot, so to speak. Other folk had similar portions and suffered no after-effects. So there was no question of doctoring a dish behind the scenes in the kitchens.”
“Any chance of a waiter adding poison en route?”
“We’ve covered that. Now, the doctors say that if the food and early wines had been doped, Sir Gideon would have passed-out long before he did. In other words, the poison would have taken effect before the speech-making. Sir Gideon didn’t take coffee. He took wine for ‘The King’ from the same bottle as others. He didn’t drink his own health, which was the next toast, and he hadn’t got to the part of the speech he was making in honour of the visitors where he’d to drink from his goblet. So, we’re just left with a cigar he was smoking.”
“What about the cigar?”
“Taken out of a box into which half a dozen others dipped as well. So there couldn’t have been any pre-meditation. The head waiter, however, took it from Sir Gideon’s hand after he’d chosen it and cut it for him.”
“Ah …”
“Yes. And the head waiter had a grievance against the Mayor. Oswald Tuckett, he’s called. Used to be head waiter at the Winter Gardens restaurant. A good job in the season. Sir Gideon got him sacked earlier in the year. Said he was impudent. Tuckett has an invalid wife who must live by the sea, so he’s had to subsist on casual work since. Mathieson, the Corporation’s catering manager, thought Tuckett didn’t get a square deal against Sir Gideon, so on the q.t. used to get him jobs. There are plenty in the season. Tuckett never tired of saying how he’d get even with the Mayor …”
“You’ve questioned him, then?”
“Yes. The cigar-end and the ash have been tested, too, with negative results. I can’t see how cutting the cigar could have allowed the introduction of poison, can you? Anyway, put Tuckett on your list for a further grilling. He’d no alibi, of course. All he could say was that it was ridiculous to think he’d had anything to do with the death.”
“How about the poison …? Have enquiries been made from chemists and such as to sources of supply?”
“Yes. We’ve drawn a blank so far, locally. Chemists, corporation labs have been visited. Now, we’re on with the doctors. The stuff might have been bought out of town … We’ve contacted the County Police to ask if they can help, too.”
“And I’ll ask Scotland Yard, although that’s throwing the net a bit wide.”
“Yes.”
“And now, what about the other guests with a grievance, sir? Can you give me some details?”
“Oh, yes. But I’ve a better plan than spinning a long
yarn. I’ve a card-index system here that covers such things. In a place like this you never know what you’ll want. We’ve a lot of dossiers,”—he pronounced it “doshers”—“with all sorts of information we’ve gathered about this and that pundit in the place. Now, while I’ve been waiting for your arrival, I’ve brought the files up-to-date. Dictated a few notes about each to my secretary and there we have them …”
Boumphrey pointed a large forefinger at a pile of folders standing formidably on a small table.
“They’re all yours and more besides. There’s a room next door where you can work, Littlejohn. Meanwhile, perhaps you’d like to see our filing department. I pride myself on it … I’m keen on such things. Nothing like system and nothing like putting down little bits of information when you get ’em. Surprising how they come-in at a time like this.”
Boumphrey opened a door leading from his room and ushered his colleague into a moderate-sized office with filing cabinets round every wall.
In the middle of the room, standing to attention beside his desk, was Horace Powlett, the guardian of it all. A tall, thin man, with stooping shoulders, a shock of unruly sandy hair and straggling moustache to match, and pale face and short-sighted eyes behind powerful spectacles.
Powlett offered a clammy hand to Littlejohn and said he was pleased to meet him.
“Inspector Littlejohn’s to have the run of this place while he’s here,” said Boumphrey.
Powlett blinked with myopic astonishment. A great boon indeed! The Chief guarded his information jealously and forbade entrance except by special and personal permission each time. Boumphrey, followed by Horace, pointed out his treasures, like a curator taking a party round a museum.
“Fingerprints, photographs, records of my own staff. Then here’s the doshers I was telling you about. My word, someone’d be surprised if they knew what was in those. Things they’ve forgotten themselves, or that they think only them and God knows about …”
Littlejohn didn’t like the atmosphere of the place or the idea of collecting dirty linen at all. It reminded him of the Nazis’ private files or of the scandalous collections of private papers involved in pre-war French government corruption. He made for the door as quickly as he could.
He'd Rather Be Dead Page 3
